


White Heron

by Wilgefortis



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-29
Updated: 2015-09-29
Packaged: 2018-04-23 23:08:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4895827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wilgefortis/pseuds/Wilgefortis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illya is watching Gaby, and she's not sure why.</p><p>(Slow burn Gaby/Illya, Gaby POV.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	White Heron

**Author's Note:**

> Later chapters may include Gaby with other partners prior to Gaby/Illya, so I hope that's adequate forewarning if that's not your jam and you want to back button now. :)
> 
> Title is borrowed from the Mountain Man song of the same name. 
> 
>   _three men stood in the clearing_  
>  _staring at the wild white heron_  
>  _some glasses of wine and a pen_  
>  _what you take away you can't give back again_

-

The first time she catches him at it is in Istanbul. They are on their third hotel in as many weeks and Waverly has booked them a single suite with apologies; something about a festival or holiday or some such. She wouldn’t know. She’s been sequestered in the room since they checked in, her presence on this leg of the mission evidently unnecessary, her boredom irrelevant — her fingertips are still wrinkled from a too-long bath, the second of the day. 

It has been at least a week since she has bothered with her eyebrows, so having exhausted all other distractions available to her (currently: the mission dossier, and an Air France brochure she found tucked between the couch cushions with lovely pictures of the _Mosquee de Ste. Sophie_ and text she can’t read), she wipes the steam from the mirror and scrambles right up onto the vanity. The marble is deliciously cool against her calves. Out in the suite, in the twilight of curtains drawn against the late afternoon sun, the boys — _the men_ , she corrects — are decoding a message in low voices. The light from the bathroom cuts a hole through the gloom that doesn’t quite reach them. 

She’s digging at a particularly troublesome hair right under the arch of her brow when her eyes happen to eyes slip out of focus and she notices Illya watching. Not her back, her bare toes hanging off the edge of the vanity — her face, turned against the glass. She blinks, momentarily distracted by the novelty of watching in return: how he sits, shoulders bent over the notepad, his shins resting against the edge of the coffee table. He looks as relaxed as she has ever seen him, yet his face is half-turned to her and there is a strange, startling focus in his expression. Their eyes meet in the reflection. His lips part.

Napoleon murmurs something in Russian. 

Illya reacts half a second too late. His head jerks up and replies rapidly in Russian, too fast and unfamiliar for her to follow. It’s like a door slamming shut in her face; she can hear it so clearly in her head that she gives an involuntary start.

But when she looks back nothing has changed. Illya is bent over the pad, pencil in hand; Napoleon holds a pair of headphones to his ear. Napoleon points to something on the pad and Illya objects. The suite is still dark and the door is still open, but she is apart from them, in the bright light, alone.

*

The envelope arrives the next morning. Or, rather: Waverly arrives, accompanied by the envelope. They sit in the suite, in the dim light, and Waverly seems concerned in a way that might be troubling if she knew Napoleon wasn’t in the bedroom getting dressed and Illya wasn’t doing … well, whatever Illya does on the balcony. After Waverly settles himself with a cup of tea he passes her the envelope — the ordinary kind, not the manilla ones that she has come to understand contain secrets and missions. It’s thick and heavy, bearing an American postmark and the address of her old flat in neat, typewritten letters. With a pang, she suddenly remembers her small bed with the quilt a neighbor made for her.

“My flat,” she says, belatedly realizing it’s a question. Waverly sits up straighter. 

“All taken care of — you should find things where you left them,” he says in that genial way of his, but then he pauses, his gaze sliding sideways. He gives a little roll of his shoulders. “More or less,” he amends after a moment.

“Oh,” she says. She should probably be mad, she thinks. Instead, she turns the envelope over. There’s a slit across the seal.

“Terribly sorry about that,” Waverly says.

Inside the envelope is a folded sheaf of paperwork, and inside that is a check, a check for more money than she has ever seen in her life, with her name printed on it and the word “beneficiary”. Her mouth falls open. She looks up in alarm.

“What is this?” she asks.

Waverly shifts in his seat. “You see,” he begins, but her eyes are darting across the cover letter, its masthead ( _Prudential Insurance Company of America_ , followed by an address in New York) and, under that, introductory condolences.

“This is from my father?” she interrupts.

“Certainly not from him _directly_ … but yes,” he says. The bedroom door swings open then, and Napoleon emerges, only to halt with a look of surprise as if he hadn’t been straining against the door fifteen seconds ago.

“Mr. Waverly! What brings you here?” he says brightly. His eyes alight on the thick sheaf of papers in her hands. There’s curiosity in his expression, and underneath that, something sharp and acquisitive. She hadn’t thought to keep it secret — she hadn’t had time to think, period — and yet.

Her fingers curl around the paperwork.

Waverly looks from her to him. “Ah, Gaby will be joining you tonight. I was just briefing her on the specifics,” he says, smiling blandly. He rises and smoothly produces another envelope, this time the manilla kind. She reaches, but Napoleon plucks it from the air. He shuffles through the file as Illya ambles in from the balcony. Napoleon passes him a page, then a photograph.

“Gentlemen,” Wavely says with a tight nod, and then with one last look to her, he makes to leave. There’s something in the way in the way that Napoleon stands shoulder to shoulder with Illya, the envelope shared between them that reminds her of last night, the rapidity of their exchange in words she couldn’t follow, and without thinking, she pushes out the door behind Waverly. She catches a glimpse of Illya’s face as the door swings closed.

She makes no effort to catch up with Waverly. He glances over his shoulder, but she just shakes her head at him. In the lobby, she gropes in a cut glass bowl and comes up with a book of matches; gravel crunches under her stockinged feet as she strides into the courtyard. She burns the paperwork in a cracked concrete bird bath, stirring the ashes into the slimy inch of water at the bottom with a stick. Later, she realizes she’s been staring at the same four magazines in the tiny hotel newsstand for some indeterminate — probably suspicious — amount of time. Dully, she looks at the check in her hand. 

She brings a dusty copy of Elle to the counter. She has to charge it to the room, of course.

*

When she slips back in the room, they’re finishing the pot of tea. Napoleon’s gaze flicks up and down, noting the absence of the paperwork and the presence of the magazine. He quirks an eyebrow at it, questioning. She crosses her arms.

“So, who am I tonight?” she asks.

“I thought that was what you and Waverly were discussing,” he replies mildly.

“Nope.” He waits, but she does not elaborate. After a moment, he shrugs and wings the manilla envelope to her. She catches it easily.

“You’re an heiress.” 

She gives one short bark of laughter. Because that _would_ be Waverly’s idea of a joke.

*

Despite her (imaginary) pedigree, the party isn’t a formal affair. The morning sun glares off the glossy stills as she flips through the file, sipping lukewarm tea and considering her wardrobe. She thinks she should be able to get away with a dress they bought in Rome. The matching shoes, however, present a complication: she broke a heel on their long walk back from the Colosseum. She consults the concierge and is delighted to discover a department store not three blocks west. Afterward, she lingers at the makeup counter, her bag swinging idly. When the girl approaches her fingers drum over the spotless, shining glass — she thinks of Illya — and on a whim, she points to a Germaine Monteil eyeshadow that she remembers from Elle. (She had reread her objectives two times, then carefully slipped the paper and photos back into the file … and spent the rest of the morning sprawled on the couch, savoring every single glorious full-color page of the magazine. Even the ads. _Especially_ the ads.)

That night, when it’s her turn at the mirror, she arranges the eyeshadow next to her lipstick and hairbrush; she applies her foundation and powder but her hand hesitates over the compact with the looping G and M. She looks up at the clean lines of her face, ready for color.

She wonders how she forgot about her flat. What kind of person forgets about their flat?

Behind her, Napoleon is rolling some surveillance gadget between his fingers. Illya adjusts his cufflinks and comes to the door.

“Are you ready?” he asks, poking his head in. He’s freshly shaved and combed, wearing the suit from Rome, the dark one with the dark tie. After a moment, she realizes he’s waiting for a reply. Her eyes sweep over the cosmetics perched at the edge of the sink. 

“Mm,” she says noncommittally. 

He hovers at the doorframe. Then, he startles her by pointing to the compact.

“New?” he inquires. She holds it up to make sure, and he nods confirmation. She stares down at glossy black plastic and the raised white letters. Next to her powder and foundation and blush, it seems utterly unremarkable. 

“How did you know?” she asks, frowning. 

“It’s different.” 

She turns to face him fully.

“Different?” she repeats. He shifts uncomfortably.

“Would not be much of an agent if I did not notice things,” he says gruffly, without conviction. He ducks back out of the bathroom before she can reply. She looks back down at the compact. 

Carefully, she sets it back down on the marble.

*

At the last moment before they depart, she darts back into the bedroom, citing technical problems with her stockings. She finds the Elle on the side table where she left it, still open to page thirty seven. She notes the position of its spine and its edges relative to the edge of the table. She measures it against her fingernail to be sure.

Napoleon is good, but she doubts he has ever machined a fitting with only centimeters of tolerance. And if he’s searched the magazine, god knows what else he’s gotten into. She glances at her suitcase, tucked into a corner beside Illya’s bag. It looks the same as ever … which proves exactly nothing, she thinks glumly. She falls back with a sigh, the bed bouncing lightly under her weight. A low chuckle drifts in from the suite — it sounds very far away. Without thinking, she slips a hand down her dress. Her fingers find the edge of her bra, then impatiently grope around her breast until they arrive at the check and go still. She exhales. The paper is smooth and reassuringly warm to the touch.

*

It rains on the train to Paris. It’s a pleasant gray drizzle at first, then fat drops splattering violently against the window. She rocks with the movement of the train, dazed but not sleepy.

Beside her, Illya is reading a newspaper, and beside him, Napoleon dozes. There isn’t much to see out the window but her own reflection, so she studies it. In Berlin she had grown accustomed to seeing her face in the evening, her features soft and indistinct as she scrubbed grease and dirt from her face while her supper bubbled in the next room over. Before that, it was the wall behind the barre, long lines of willowy legs bending in time: _demi-plié, demi-plié, grande-plié, port de bras_. 

This new iteration is ghostly, half-formed in the train window. She was an heiress in Istanbul; she will be a secretary in Paris. She even played some version of herself in Rome — a MI6 agent in a Gaby suit — but when it was done, there was no skin to shed.

Her flat is taken care of. Her father is dead. 

“Ugly day,” Illya rumbles, startling her. After a moment of confusion she realizes he thinks she’s watching the countryside roll by. She remembers the compact. She wonders if he is, perhaps, giving small talk a try.

“I like rain,” she says, tracing a raindrop as it streaks across the glass.

He snorts.

“What?” She twists in her seat to face him. He has that fond look that suggests she has just said something terribly naive. She hates that look.

“Maybe now. You will not like rain so much when your mission goes bad and your partner is unconscious and you have a bullet in your side and you are twenty kilometers from the nearest village.”

She drops her chin onto her fist. “That is not a real thing that happened.”

Beside him, Napoleon unfolds into a obnoxious stretch. “Is he bragging again about how bad he’s had it?” he says, yawning into his elbow. Illya scowls. Napoleon ignores it and helps himself to the newspaper in Illya’s lap. 

“You must admit, Peril, it’s very Russian of you,” he drawls.

*

It’s still raining when she slips into a booth at a bar on Rue des Rosiers the next afternoon. She smoothes her skirt and orders a Bloody Mary — she’s never been one for tomato juice, but it seems right seems right for a secretary with a vendetta and a briefcase full of her boss’s secrets. Illya is somewhere on a nearby rooftop, and Napoleon will play her oblivious employer later, but for the moment, she’s on her own. When Napoleon had brushed the lint from her smart blue suit that morning he told her not to worry: if nothing else, she was experienced in double-crossing him.

His delivery was light as always, but his words had _stung_ ; almost reflexively, she had turned to Illya. His big hands were twisting the dials on a receiver, and they went still. Distantly, she realized he must have looked much the same, crouching in the bushes at the Vinciguerra estate, and then a heartbeat behind that, she remembered the feeling of those hands on her thigh. How cool his fingertips felt against the rush of heat in her skin. 

She moistened her lips. With a word, Illya picked up his kit and stalked into the bedroom.

“Touché,” Napoleon murmured, adjusting a curl. She set her hands on her hips and glared up at him.

She touches the curl now, verifying that the damp hasn’t loosened it — that the receiver is still tucked safely behind it, deep in her ear. Her drink is sweating onto a bar napkin, so she takes a sip. The rock salt sticks to her lipstick.

Her mind drifts back to the train. She wonders how long Illya had been watching before he had spoken. In Istanbul, his eyes had been dark and colorless in the dim light. She’s made peace with the fact that the uncomplicated interest he’d shown her in Rome has been replaced by something more cautious, more wary. But she remembers the compact, and the magazine, and suddenly, like a lock clicking open, it occurs to her that maybe she has misread him, and maybe he isn’t just being careful — maybe she has mistaken suspicion for attraction.

She must look up sharply, because he immediately buzzes in her ear.

“What is it?” 

She gives a tiny shake of her head. He hesitates, then the line goes dead again. Glancing from side to side, she confirms that she hasn’t been observed. But it’s harder to shake the feeling of his eyes on her back. The salt burns her tongue; she feels as though the lenses of his binoculars are searing circles into her skin. 

*

She waits exactly four minutes after her contact has left before she bolts from the bar, leaving a few hastily counted francs on the counter. The rain isn’t coming down hard, but the drops are leaden and ice-cold.

“Where are you going?” Illya says, too close, too loud, his voice distorted by static. She takes a left and shoots a look up at the roofline, at where he must be hiding. The rain hits her directly in the face; she sees nothing but potted plants and chimneys.

“Out,” she says shortly.

“That is not-“ She doesn’t wait for him to finish. She yanks the earpiece from her ear and the ring from her finger. Briefly, she considers dropping both into the gutter, but she squeezes them in her fist and walks faster. 

He’s probably up there, scrambling from roof to roof. Crossing Rue de Rivoli diagonally, she ducks down an alley. Her footsteps echo off the walls. Her makeup is running. She doesn’t know where, exactly, she is going.

She takes a right, followed by a left. Then tall neoclassical columns catch her eye and she stutters to a halt, nearly colliding with another woman. She stares across traffic at a Banque de Paris building. Her heart thumps against the check. Its corners press into her breast.

It would be the correct thing to do. The wise thing. She could start an account, sign over the check, and be done with it. 

Her hand twitches to her lapel. The last time she saw her father, there had been no rush of affection. She stood there, acutely aware of the wind flapping through her dress and the fading roar of the helicopter, trying to connect the stranger before her with the man she had known in childhood. All she could recall was the photograph on her desk in Berlin — not even a real memory, someone else’s picture of her in black and white. And yet, the check is proof that he must have thought of her from time to time; like he is reaching out across time and space and whispering in her ear.

One last secret, for her alone.

She turns on her heel and strides down to the Quai. The sky is gray and ugly and the Seine is at least three shades grayer, uglier. The rain stains her expensive silk blouse. Paris is shit, she thinks, it’s all _shit_.

Once or twice she glances up. She’s not sure what agitates her more: the likelihood that he has followed her, or the small possibility that he hasn’t.

*

The mission goes badly that night.

It’s unrelated to her secretary cover. _Just a light bit of breaking and entering_ , Waverly says, _something I need to check off my list_. Illya arrives at the hotel almost an hour after she returns in her sodden suit and ruined blouse. He eyes the damp splotch on the couch but says nothing. Instead, he pulls a file from a damp paper bag: it reveals an unremarkable office building in need of a thorough bugging. 

They choose a small window in a restroom overlooking a linden tree as her point of entry. Napoleon and Illya select more difficult routes, though perhaps it is simply a matter of size and scale — as she drops down to the restroom floor that night, she realizes she probably has the advantage when it comes to slippery branches and tight windows. And that makes her feel better, at least for awhile, until she notices she is trailing wet footprints down the hallway and she turns, her toes clipping an invisible line (a line drawn in red on their map of the building, a line Napoleon had insisted she memorize), and there’s a sound like a shrill intake of breath before the alarm starts to scream. Her muscles lock; her mind goes blank. Then panic — real, true panic, like she has not felt since the night Waverly first contacted her in Berlin — jolts her awake and she sprints back the way she came, no longer careful of the screen or the glass, kicking at them like a caged animal. Illya and Napoleon are in her ear, cursing in their native languages.

It’s a long way down to the ground. She lands on her hands and knees, and rolls. Rain lashes at her back, but the alarm cuts through it, through the crack of lightning that briefly lights the whole courtyard in stark monochrome. She runs, the mud sucking at her shoes.

Illya is waiting two blocks down, his long body pressed into a shallow alcove between a boulangerie and a patisserie. He holds a gun in his right hand and with his left he swiftly pats her shoulders, her arms, her side, searching for wounds; when he find none, he sags against the wall. His relief is so clear, so terrifyingly honest that she blurts out that it was all her fault, that she tripped the alarm. She stands there panting, waiting for him to react, while the rain pounds against the pavement.

Then they hear the shots. There is a burst of static in their receivers, followed by Napoleon’s voice, calm but breathing hard: “I seem to have made new friends. Perhaps we ought to show them around town.”

They spring for the car. She turns the key and the engine roars to life; beside her, the door flies open and Napoleon slides into the front seat. An excruciating chase follows, her BMW skidding around corners, careening through alleys only to be met by big, black sedans on the other side. Deep in the suburbs, there are bright flashes with gunfire — Illya returns it in kind while Napoleon shouts directions. The window bursts behind her. The driver side mirror splinters. She drives hard, knuckles white against the stick, dimly aware that there is rain and glass caught in her hair.

*

Somewhere, in the darkness outside the city, Napoleon directs her to pull into the gravel drive of an unlit country house. There is an exchange in Russian — an exchange she simply accepts, without annoyance, her arms trembling as the adrenalin surges under her skin. They both climb out of the car. The rain has slowed, and she sits, listening to it patter against the roof. Consciously, she forces her fingers to uncurl from from the steering wheel.

When she arrives at the front, Napoleon is giving the pick one final twist. He pushes open the heavy wooden door, and wordlessly, they follow him in. The house smells damp and cool, like a cellar. Napoleon bends in the darkness and turns on a lamp, and she flinches at the sudden brightness.

They’re dripping on a knotted rug; she notes the needlepoint pillows and the crocheted blankets neatly arranged across the top of the sofa. Someone’s parlor, then.

“Does this belong to us?” she asks.

“U.N.C.L.E.? No. But I am acquainted with the owner.” 

She means to say “ah”, to acknowledge it in some way, but no sound comes out. Numbly, her legs fold and she drops to the sofa. Some time later, something soft brushes her cheek, and she turns to see Napoleon holding a towel. She takes it, and he comes around the side and takes a seat at her side. They both watch Illya, pacing the length of the parlor, pausing every few steps to twitch open the lace curtains.

“What are you doing, Peril?” Napoleon asks wearily.

Illya gives a derisive snort. “Watching. _Obviously._ ”

“Knock it off. We’re fine.” This earns Napoleon a glare. He scrubs his eyes. “I mean it. Or go be restless somewhere else.” Illya presses his lips together but sits down on a doily-covered wingback chair. His fingers curl against the arm. One foot taps rapidly against the floor, and he looks to the side, tucking his hands in his lap. After approximately ten seconds, he gets to his feet and storms out of the parlor. Napoleon sighs. Gaby sighs.

She follows him.

She finds him in the kitchen, staring out a window. He has not bothered to turn on a light. He stands still, or as still as he is capable of being in present circumstances — he rocks slightly on his heels, fingers drumming against his the windowsill. Slowly, she crosses the tiles, and he turns to her.

“You have glass in your hair,” he says after a moment. Neither of them move. She looks down at her hands in the darkness. She thinks of how he looked at her earlier, when he was satisfied she was unhurt. 

“I fucked up.” She’s not sure if she’s referring to the mission, or Rome. Maybe both. 

Some emotion twitches across his features, and he turns back to the window. “It’s alright.”

“It wasn’t even- I tripped the alarm. It was all my fault,” she rambles. She realizes she needs him to acknowledge her mistake, his anger. The apology in Rome had been too hasty, and it had resulted in … whatever this is, this strange arrangement she has neither asked for nor agreed to, where he keeps his distance but watches her with an intensity she doesn’t understand. 

“It’s alright,” he repeats.

She frowns. “No, it’s not alright. I fucked up.” She punctuates each word with jab to his chest. He is frustratingly solid. “I put all of us, I put the mission in jeopardy.” 

She thinks this has to be the magic word. The _mission_. But he exhales through his nostrils and turns back to the window. 

Anger flares in her sternum.

“I don’t need you to pretend like you aren’t mad, you know.” She advances on him, squaring her shoulders, readying for a fight. But he takes a step back, and that just makes her angrier. He is literally shaking with barely contained rage and nerves, and yet he refuses to engage her out of — what? Some misguided bullshit _chivalry_?

“I don’t need to be coddled. I feel shitty enough, thank you,” she spits. In her peripheral vision, she notes his hand wrapping around the edge of the counter behind him. He draws his back against it, absurdly pinned between her and the wood. And because she is feeling reckless and self-destructive, because she cannot seem to stop herself, she draws herself up to her full height and presses right up against him, so close she can feel the heat of his body and the way his breath hitches at the contact.

“I don’t need you watching me, Illya. Or watching over me. I don’t know what it is. But I can take care of myself.”

His hands spasm against the counter, and suddenly, they are on her shoulders. They spin, and her back hits the counter. Dishes rattle. She tries to yank free of his grip, but he holds her arms at her sides, and his hands as cold and implacable as iron.

“You are inexperienced.” She squirms; he gives her arms a tight shake. “No- no. You listen. You don’t know how things are done. You are going to get yourself killed if no one is paying attention,” he hisses, and she is infuriated that he is using the full advantage of his height to be _that_ much more condescending. She tries to lift her arm, tries to twist away — she lashes out with one leg and catches him in the thigh. He just shifts his weight and tightens his grip.

He narrows his eyes. 

“Have you considered maybe I like to watch you?” His voice is low and rough, as if he is making a threat. He sounds absolutely furious.

“Enough.” They both turn to Napoleon, silhouetted against the doorframe. He regards them coolly. “Both of you.” Illya lifts his chin defiantly, a muscle jumping in his jaw. But after a long moment, he pushes back with a loud, exasperated breath, and she bounces against the counter; a canister wobbles against her elbow. She and Napoleon watch in silence as he strides from the kitchen.

Napoleon turns to her. “I, for one, will not pretend it’s alright.”

She winces, simultaneously feeling caught out and annoyed at his shamelessness. But mostly, she feels tired. “How much did you hear?”

He rolls his head from side to side in a gesture that eloquently suggests everything from ‘a bit’ to ‘all of it’. He reaches out to right a salt shaker.

“You fucked up,” he says. “But I think we can fix it.”


End file.
